Jigsaw of Past
by Coralfly
Summary: Blue eyes meet blue eyes and memory resurfaces. Tristan and Rory Future Fic. [Complete]


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Disclaimer: The characters of Tristan DuGrey and Rory Gilmore do not belong to me. They are the property of the WB, Amy Sherman-Palladino and affiliates. And very obviously, the extract from _The Cinnamon Peeler_ is not mine and belongs to Michael Ondaatje.

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Author's Notes: Strangely enough, I've been in a fanfic writing mood. I mean, I've updated _Chronicling Babylon_ and now this. Bizarre, really.

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Jigsaw of Past

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as if not spoken in the act of love  
as if wounded without the pleasure of a scar  
- extract from_ The Cinnamon Peeler _by Michael Ondaatje

She has been a foggy dream, barely remembered. There has only been the lingering fragments of pain, regret and unrequited infatuation swirling in the recesses of his mind – traces of past days washed over by the years.

They meet again at some social function of a mutual acquaintance. He is performing some trick with a champagne flute, seasonal cherries imported from Australia and a silver spoon, which is in his mouth, when blue eyes meet blue eyes. He fumbles at the sudden jolt of uncanny familiarity. The champagne flute topples, three cherries land unceremoniously on the top of his head and he crumples to the floor, choking on silver. The crowd roars with approval.

"Great going, Tristan!"

"We can always count on you to be the life of the party, DuGrey!"

Eventually the crowd dissipates, lured by entertainment elsewhere, and it is only blue eyes meeting blue eyes.

He smiles – jutting bottom lip out in a manner guaranteed to make ladies swoon – and slurs, "Do I know you?" He notices her swaying; the smile has done its job. Later, he will reflect that the swaying might have been caused by the rich fruity taste of pinot noir on her lips. 

She never answers his question.

In midnight glow, they edge outside to a Victorian styled stone balcony and drink champagne and wine and spill out woes of too many broken hearts. Tristan likes that she seems to be on the same wavelength as him. 

He tells her the story of gold digging Katherine and neglected unfaithful Amanda. "And there was this one girl at high school," he garbles, "she had blonde hair – they always have blonde hair – and her name was R-something. Rhonda? No, Ruby. Maybe it was Rosemary? Yeah, I think it was Rosemary. It'd make sense 'cos I used to call her Mary. I remember _that_, that I called her Mary. She had blue eyes, just like you."

Tristan notices the edges of her mouth angling into an almost frown and flirts, "Don't worry. She's not as pretty as you."

"So I'm much prettier than this Mary?" she coyly inquires.

"Much, much prettier," he replies. Tristan knows he has answered correctly when he is rewarded with a kiss.

In return she tells him, "My name is Lorelai." She speaks in a flat voice. Flat, flat, flat. "My name is Lorelai and I am my mother's daughter."

From a distance they can hear the drunken laughter and squeals of the other guests. Outside, it begins to snow and tiny flakes of frost fall from the blackness of sky. She sticks out her tongue and savors the cold. 

"I will never get married," she confesses. "It is in my destiny to never get married. My mother never married. And I am my daughter's mother."

"Your mother's daughter," Tristan corrects, and marvels at how alcohol brings clarity of mind.

"Yes, that too. But I am also my daughter's mother…when I get a daughter. In the meantime, I plan to have a long string of lovers."

This time he kisses her. Soft, pliable lips like she is opening up to him and yet at the same time unraveling him. 

"I am not my father's son," he informs her. "And I will never be my father's son." Little secrets are sliding down his tongue and Tristan knows that he should care but he doesn't.

"Really?" she asks.

"I am a bastard."

Her eyes widen in surprise but she is also giggling. "Bastard as in illegitimate child? Or bastard as in you son-of-a-bitch kinda bastard?"

"All of the above," he grins maniacally, feeling oddly euphoric. "I am an illegitimate child. I am the son of a bitch. And most of all, I am a bastard." 

Lorelai – blue eyed mother's daughter – licks her lips and assesses him. "Dance with me," she commands.

One hand curls around her waist as the other takes her hand, and they are dancing to white flakes trickling onto concrete sidewalks and bitumen roads. 

"I knew a boy with eyes just like yours," she whispers into the night. "I imagine he grew up to be just like you."

"Only I am more handsome, right?" Tristan smirks.

"Of course."

Their bodies are cocooned together; not quite a perfect fit but lovely all the same. Snow dusts over them and they are shivering, quivering, tingling. His fingers start to play with her hair and he admires the various shades of brown. 

Tristan has long given up on the idea of love but he thinks this current feeling (like always) might be something close. It is also something like infatuation but more substantial and less intense. He thinks of the women he has shared a night like this with; so far there have only been six. He treasures them, just like he will treasure Lorelai. But he knows that this doesn't mean anything. Not love. Not infatuation. Not anything. He feels giddy and sober and young and old and he drinks her in. 

They dance without rhythm and step on each other's toes. He smells her: cinnamon lust berry desire champagne wine passion and fresh snow. They kiss again and again and again. And everything seems so oddly intimate and momentous and meaningless. 

"I'm going to get married one day," he tells her. "And I'm going to live the rest of my life utterly miserable."

"I'm never going to get married," she banters back. "And I'm going to live the rest of my life utterly miserable because I let my true love slip through my fingers."

"I don't believe in love," Tristan says. "But who needs love when we have _this_." His mouth swoops down to claim hers and she gasps her agreement. His thumb caresses her cheek and he murmurs, "Tonight we have this and the world is ours. Pretty, pretty Lorelai. Mine for just tonight."

"My name is Lorelai," she affirms. "But you may call me Mary, just for tonight."

Silently, she takes his hand and leads him to a room bathed in one o'clock shadows. Silhouettes contort and writhe. Limbs are entangled on egg cream carpet. Brown and blonde hair is splayed across the floor. Blue eyes meet blue eyes.

Five in the morning, dawn light shimmering across bare chest, Tristan wakes up. His head is clouded with dream-like memories and a hangover. From the distance of several hallways and rooms, he can hear the continued frivolity and revelry of the other guests. He reaches for his shirt and trousers and haphazardly dresses. The room is empty except for a piano, Tristan and a strand of brown hair.

"Lorelai," he recollects. "Blue-eyed Lorelai who is her mother's daughter. But I called her Mary." There is the insistent tug of memories, faint and not quite forgotten.

He walks over to the window and draws apart the silk curtains to reveal a world transformed white. Outside, there is the outline of a woman scuttling across the street, wrapped in coat and scarf.

Little pieces dropped throughout the night suddenly come together to complete the jigsaw of past. 

A name returns to Tristan and memories cover him like the snow covers the city. He feels the pang of something unexpected, indescribable and lost.

He gives it a name, "Rory."


End file.
